by Vicki Tharp
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Part of Jenna wished it was dark inside the cabin, so she wouldn’t feel so exposed. The other part of her was glad it was light, so she could take in every solid inch of him, commit this moment to crystal-clear, ultra-sharp memory. Her hand shook as she reached for him. She’d wanted this for a very long time.
“You nervous?” he said as he raised her shaking hand to his lips and kissed her palm.
“A little.” Her pitch was off, sounding more like her fifteen-year-old self waiting for her first kiss.
“I won’t hurt you.”
“I know. That’s not what I’m nervous about.”
He snugged her up against him, his hands running down to the small of her back. His arousal was trapped between their bodies. Before she lost her nerve, she slid a hand down his belly, brushed the tips of her fingers down the silky length of him.
Closing his eyes, he hissed in a breath. When he opened them again, he said, “Then what are you nervous about?”
Emboldened by his response to her touch, she reached down and cupped his balls, held the weight of them in her hands, before encircling his tip with her fingers and starting a slow, sensual slide south. He muttered a curse, wrapped his arms tighter around her, and pressed his forehead to hers.
“I don’t want to do this wrong,” she said.
He buried his head in the crook of her shoulder, nipped at the tender flesh there, and whispered in her ear, “There’s no wrong way to do this. If it feels good, it’s right. And, baby, what you’re doing there…feels so right.”
He stepped away, and she muffled the whine of displeasure, but he brought her over to the bed and tugged her down beside him.
“Can I… be on top?” The tips of her ears heated until she thought they’d spontaneously combust. The light breeze that blew through the cabin stoked them and made them burn hotter. In the silence, she heard the high-pitched whistle of the meadow larks, and overhead, something skittering across the roof. Why didn’t he say something? He looked at her like he’d vapor-locked. “Or not.”
“Ah…” He kissed the corner of her mouth, nibbled at her bottom lip. “The thought of you riding me…those thighs wrapped—” He shook his head as if to rattle the words free. “You on top is good.”
She smiled, liking the idea of being in control, of being the one to drive him crazy. She pushed him back against the pillows, and with his hands on her hips, he guided her across his lap.
When she settled over the top of him, his hands roamed over her flat belly, and the muscles beneath quivered, bringing a heated smile to his face. He cupped her breasts, giving them a gentle squeeze and rubbing his thumbs over her nipples until they peaked.
She arched her back, seeking the pressure, the pleasure, and scooted forward, his erection beneath her. She rubbed up against him. He groaned. Jenna lay forward along his torso. Admired the contrast of his hard muscles and smooth skin. Liked having their bodies pressed together, the weight of her breasts between them.
Then she remembered his bruising and went to sit back up, but his arms held her tight. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I was afraid I was hurting your chest.”
“Only in a good way.”
She settled against him again. He cupped the back of her head, holding her in place, kissing her, his mouth telling her what his body wanted to do. The thrust of his tongue, the slide. It only emphasized what she’d been missing, what she wanted. So far, she was quite the fan of foreplay, but right now, she wanted the real deal.
She broke the kiss, resting her weight on her forearms. “Not that I want to rush things, but…”
He brushed his hand over the covers and came up with the box and a smile. “Need help with those?”
She searched for the directions. “Number one: Start with—”
He laughed and grabbed them back. “Let me—”
“Kidding.” She held her hand out. “Gimme.”
With a dubious look, he handed them over.
He placed one hand behind his head, while the other traced lazy circles at the juncture of one of her thighs. The motion worked like piling dry tinder on a smoldering fire. Deep in her belly sat a heaviness. A want. A need that began and ended with this man lying beneath her.
The box gave her fits. Quinn’s grin grew wider and wider, enjoying her unraveling composure. When she was about to just say screw it and go without, he grabbed the box out of her hand and tore one corner off with his teeth.
He spat out the shred and handed it back to her. “Try that.”
She laughed and kissed him on the lips. “My hero.” She tore the box open, taking out the ribbon of condoms and ripping one off the bottom. Fingers fumbling, she opened the package with minor foolishness and covered him.
She rose above him and used a hand to press him to her entrance.
“Uh…Jenn—”
“Is this where you ask me if I’m sure I want to do this?”
“Oh, hell no. This is where I tell you to take it slow and eas—”
She didn’t have the time or the patience for that. In one fluid motion, she buried him to the hilt, and they both froze. He gripped her hips, and with the pads of his fingers pressing into her flesh, he held her still. Full, so full. The sensation squeezed the air from her lungs and the thoughts from her head.
She went to move, and he shook his head. His eyes closed, the strain on his face tight. “Give me a second,” he said. He breathed out a few times. Then opened his eyes and smiled up at her. “You feel so damn good.”
“Tower, this is Jenna, permission to take off,” she teased.
He huffed out a laugh and eased his grip on her hips. “Permission granted.”
Careful to avoid his bruising, Jenna balanced her hands on his chest and started moving her hips. She started slow, but quickly built up speed. He met her thrust for thrust, his hands all over her hips, her belly, her breasts.
Inside, the tension built and revved. A tingling low in her core, heating, heating. She arched her back, her hands on his knees, the sweet, wet friction, the slap of skin, the deep moans of pleasure from her. From him.
Close. So close.
“Come on, baby,” he ground out, his hand reaching down between them. She rode him hard, grinding her clit into the pad of his thumb. Her body trembled; her breath came in short, raspy pulls. Then her body clenched around him, and she soared.
“Holy hell. That’s it,” he said. “Fly, baby. Fly.”
She could almost feel the wind in her hair, the freedom, the complete abandonment of everything keeping her earthbound.
Aftershocks made her descent enticingly turbulent, and moments before landing, he flipped her onto her back. The mangled condom box dug into her shoulder, but she didn’t care. He gripped her hips and pumped into her, hard and fast and steady. His breathing went ragged, and he stiffened above her, the strain on his face exquisite.
He pulsed inside her. His heartbeat. His life. She’d never been so connected to another human being. This oneness surrounded and protected and consumed, all at the same time.
Spent, he collapsed on top of her, his weight and warmth welcomed. She traced her fingers down the muscles along his spine, his skin slick with sweat, his heart drumming against her chest.
As he caught his breath, he raised up on his forearms and kissed her chin, her lips. “That”—he ground against her, the friction sending aftershocks through her body and rippling her skin with goose bumps—“was amazing.”
She kissed him back, tightening her internal muscles around him.
“Holy, holy, holy motherf—” He held his breath until she had mercy and released him. “Jesus.” He rained kisses down on her cheek, her chin, her collarbone, his scruff sending tingles along her nerve endings.
He kissed the end of her nose, his breath and hers more even now
. “So, any regrets?”
“Only that I waited this long. But if I hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been with you. So…thank you.”
He chuckled. “Don’t thank me. Wasn’t like it was all hard labor and MREs.”
She pressed against him, chasing the pleasure. He started to stiffen inside of her. Squeezing one spectacularly firm ass cheek, she said, “Speaking of hard labor…”
He covered her mouth with his, sweeping his tongue inside before pulling back, a grin on his face. “Ready for your second flight, pilot?”
She grinned back. “Practice makes pleasure perfect.”
“Well, if you got the time.”
Time. Pepita! She’d totally forgotten about picking her up. Jenna glanced at her watch. Still two o’clock. What the—? Her watch had stopped. She pushed him off of her, and scrambled out of bed. “What time is it?”
“My phone’s in my jeans.”
She found his clothes and dug out his cell. “Oh my God. I was supposed to pick her up fifteen minutes ago.”
* * * *
Quinn rolled off the bed, disposed of the condom, and slipped on his jeans, commando-style. “Why the panic? I thought you were picking her up at her friend’s house.”
“Sidney texted earlier. Said there was a change in plans. She’s at the diner with her friends in Elk Creek.”
Jenna stuffed her boobs into her bra and her feet into her boots, then bolted out the door. Quinn caught up.
“I’ll drive,” he said. “Kurt’s car is closer.”
She complied. Quinn had the car started and had begun backing up by the time she slammed the passenger door shut.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sure she’s fine. The kids will probably just hang out until you pick her up.”
“Sure.” But Jenna wasn’t really paying attention to what he’d said. Her left knee bounced faster than a jackrabbit hopped up on speed.
He stomped on the gas. The tires spun, and the rear end slid, spitting gravel. A cloud of dust swirled in their wake like jet wash as they raced up the dirt road and sped toward town.
Jenna kept glancing at her watch. Which went to show how frazzled she felt, because it wasn’t like her watch had started running again on its own.
It was like time had stood still while they’d made love.
Made. Love.
That was what it had been. Even knowing it would be that way, he’d been ill-prepared for the profound effect it had on him.
It was like all the women he’d slept with before had been a child’s stick-figure drawing compared to Jenna in full, 1080p Technicolor glory.
There was no comparison. Not the same ballpark, continent, world, universe.
How could he ever go back to a black-and-white existence when he knew what waited for him in this new world?
“Can’t you go any faster?”
He glanced down at the speedometer. “I’m already twenty over the limit. Hang tight. We’re close.”
Quinn slowed but didn’t stop at the only blinking red light in Elk Creek. A block later, he pulled into the diner’s parking lot. Jenna had the door open and was jumping out before he’d even come to a complete stop.
“Wait up,” he hollered, but she shot up the steps of the diner and yanked the door open. He jogged to catch up.
She skidded to a stop by the register. A few people were eating at the diner’s counter, and a group of four kids—two girls and two boys about Pepita’s age—sucked on shakes and chomped fries at a back table by the converted train’s front window.
But no Pepita.
Jenna faltered. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go ask those kids if they know where she is.”
She didn’t say anything, but her feet moved in the kids’ general direction. “Hey,” she said when she got to the table. “Is one of you named Tarkin?”
The kids looked at each other as if deciding whether or not they should answer. Then a skinny kid with short black hair and a T-shirt that read, I think like a proton and stay positive, half-raised his hand. “Um…I’m Tarkin.”
“I’m Jenna. I’m supposed to be picking up Pepita. Her mother said she was at the diner with you.”
“She was,” he said as he chomped on another fry. “We waited outside until her dad picked her up about ten minutes ago.”
The other kids nodded in agreement.
“See?” Quinn said. “You were worried about nothing. Come on, let’s head back.”
Near the exit, she stopped and went back to the table. She pulled out her phone and thumbed through her photos until she came to one with Pepita, Sidney, and Boomer standing on the porch of the cabin. All three were dressed and pressed with their picture-perfect smiles on. She pinched the picture, zoomed in on Boomer’s face, and handed it to Tarkin. “Is this the man who picked her up?”
The boy reached the bottom of his shake and his straw gurgled. He shook his head.
“You sure?”
He nodded. The other kids looked at the picture.
A blond girl said, “No. The guy who picked her up looked like her.”
Quinn had a queasy feeling in his stomach, like he’d eaten all the fries and drunk all the shakes. “What do you mean, he looked like her?”
The kids eyeballed each other again. “You tell him,” the blond girl said to Tarkin.
“You know,” Tarkin said, his voice a bad stage whisper. He brushed his hand along his cheek. “His skin was brown like hers.”
Jenna’s face went white. The change wasn’t slow or gradual. One second she had color; the next she made ghosts look like they had Hawaiian tans.
She held her hand out, and the kids returned the phone. She thumbed through her photo album until she got to a pencil drawing of a man’s face.
Like a police sketch.
Quinn lost the breath in his lungs, and he placed a hand on the back of the booth to steady himself. Jenna handed the phone over again.
“I think that’s him,” Tarkin said.
“Lemme see,” the blond girl said, taking the phone. “No, the guy we saw had a mustache.”
A girl with red hair and a green tank top took the phone next. “Tarkin’s right. That was him.”
“Was not,” the blond girl said.
The other boy shrugged, not caring much about anything that didn’t have to do with the food in front of him.
“Can you four stay here a few minutes?” Jenna asked them.
They all glanced at each other again, and nods went around. “Sure,” Tarkin said for the group.
Jenna pushed Quinn toward the register and leaned in close as if she didn’t want anyone to overhear. “Call the sheriff and get him down here.” Her breath came rapid and shallow, on the cusp of hyperventilation. “I’ve got to call Sidney.”
Though it didn’t seem possible, Jenna suddenly grew paler. He sat her in an empty booth and pushed her head between her legs before she passed out. “Deep breaths, Jenn.”
She tried to sit up, but he kept his hand on the back of her neck until her breathing slowed. Finally letting her up, he got down on one knee in front of her and brushed the hair out of her face. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She fumbled with her phone, but managed to press Sidney’s number on speed dial. When Sidney picked up, Jenna said, “Come to the diner right now. El Verdugo has Pepita.”
* * * *
“I want to know how this happened. In broad fucking daylight.” If Boomer’s red face was any indication, he was only about two blood-pressure points shy of stroking out.
And it was all Jenna’s fault.
Her chest squeezed, squeezed, squeezed. So tight she couldn’t take a deep breath, though everyone told her to do so. Stars danced in her peripheral vision; black spots, too. She stuck her head between her knees again and tried to breathe. Quinn’s hand
rubbed her back, providing a silent strength, even if his hand shook a little.
“You need to sit down, Boomer,” the sheriff said.
She glanced up as Boomer leveled a murderous gaze at St. John. “What I need is my daughter back.”
“Technically,” Finn cut in, “she’s a ward of the state.”
Boomer’s hand lashed out, grabbed a fistful of Finn’s shirt.
Soto pushed between them. To Finn, she said, “For a guy with an IQ over one-sixty, you’re an idiot.”
Finn raised his hands, and Boomer let him go.
St. John said, “My deputies are working hard to find her.”
“Oh great. Fine.” Boomer ran his hands through his hair and turned to Sidney, his sarcasm thick as delta mud. “Isn’t that great, Irish? The sheriff’s working on that.”
“Bryan—”
Boomer took her arm and started pushing his way toward the conference room door. Past Finn and Soto and Mac and Hank. Boomer’s hand gripped the handle when the sheriff said, “Where the hell are you going?”
Boomer yanked the door open, shaking off the steadying grip Hank put on his shoulder. “To find my daughter.”
“One step,” the sheriff said, his tone level, but the warning ringing clear. “You take one step out that door, and I’ll have you both arrested.”
“What the hell for?”
“Obstruction of justice. I have better things to do than worrying about you going off half-cocked and screwing up the investigation.”
Hank put a hand on the center of Boomer’s chest. “You’ll do her no good in jail. You know that.”
Boomer let Sidney pull him back to the table, and he flopped into a seat. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a couple of deep breaths. His color improved. The scowl etched across his features didn’t.
With a hand on her husband’s shoulder, Sidney addressed Finn, Soto, and St. John. “What do you know?”
Finn was the first to answer. “After interviewing the kids, we now have a description of the truck, an older white Chevy pickup—”